Girls of the Mahabharata: The One Who Had Two Lives

By Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan

'The Indian epics gain strength and renewal with every telling and retelling. Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's compelling and accomplished narration of the crucial story of Amba and Shikhandi is a timely reminder of the constant currency and relevance of the Mahabharata.' - Namita Gokhale. Book one, The One Who Swam with the Fishes, told the tale of Satyavati on the cusp of womanhood. She is now Queen of Hastinapur and the story moves forward to Kashi, where Princess Amba is growing up with her sisters, Ambika and Ambalika. A swayamvara is arranged for them, where Amba plans to wed Prince Salva, the love of her life. However, an unexpected figure walks into the ceremony and thwarts all plans of a happy ending. In another life, Shikhandi, has never been what he seems. With his close companion, Utsarg, he embarks on a journey to look for a yaksha who will give him what he wants - to be a Kshatriya prince in body and in mind. But along the way, he might have to lose some of himself, the part he calls Shikhandini. Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan draws out the lesser-known characters of the Mahabharata from the margins and tells their stories with compassion and grit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Dec 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9789353024697

Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan

Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan was born in Hyderabad, but grew up in New Delhi. Formerly a journalist, Madhavan's first book You Are Here was commissioned in 2007 on the basis of her hugely popular blog Compulsive Confessions. This is her seventh book and the second in the Girls of the Mahabharata series.

Book preview

For Kian, for everything

CONTENTS

Author's Note

Part One: Amba

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

The In-Between

Part Two: Shikhandini

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Book

About the Author

Praise for The One Who Swam with the Fishes

Copyright

Author’s Note

Once upon a time, during India’s Bronze Age, there were three princesses...

When I began to think about Amba, I thought of that fairy tale beginning at first. It’s evocative, the idea of three lovely young women, on the eve of their wedding day, waiting for their grooms. But then, you have to wonder: while the rest of us are buying this version of ‘once upon a time’, what’s actually going through the heads of the princesses themselves?

The story of Amba and her two sisters is one of the most interesting ones in the Mahabharata – a book full of interesting stories – because Amba is the only one who gets to be reborn within the epic, with her story continuing about four generations later. She’s born in a woman’s body again but, as the fates would have it, with the destiny to one day turn into not just a man, but also one of the greatest warriors that had ever lived. How could anyone not want to write about that?

My first book in The Girls of the Mahabharata series was about Satyavati, the original matriarch of the massive Kuru dynasty. Satyavati makes a brief appearance in this book as well, but I always meant for the books to be read as stand-alone volumes, with enough to appeal to both those familiar with the epics, as well as those who are curious about them.

Part One: Amba

Blood everywhere-it’s as if it has become part of the dust and the sand, blood that washes over the folds of my skin and my feet, the cracks in my soles are rusty with dried blood. But it’s not mine, unless it is … my feet burn with the force of my stance, my arms are full of welts and I need to screw up my eyes to see through the dust storm that whistles in my ears and feeds me a mouthful of dirt ... and blood.

Chapter One

Iam usually the first to wake up in the large dim room I share with my sisters. The sun has not yet begun to shine through the mottled sky, but there is a brightening, so I can see the faces of the sleepy maids who wave the fans over us. One has gone to sleep, her mouth wide open, the fan slumped in her hand. They are forbidden from doing this, so if someone sees her, she could be in a predicament, but her face is so young, her eyes all crinkled up in her sleep and it is almost dawn, after all, so what does a little sleep matter?

I sit up and the maids stir, raising folded palms up by their foreheads in greeting. The senior maid notices the little one sleeping and without breaking the rhythm of her fan, reaches out and gives the girl a sharp pinch on her thigh. She wakes up with a start, her eyes wide, her mouth already turning downwards. I could interfere but I don’t. ‘Let the maids handle their own,’ my mother used to tell me. ‘The servants have their own laws, and it is not for us to interfere, unless a gross injustice is being done.’ This does not count as a gross injustice, but I still feel sorry for the girl as I get up and walk to the door, she’s weeping silently now, but her fan hand is moving fast, and the senior maid looks satisfied.

There’s a eunuch guarding the door, I don’t recognize her, but she looks more like a woman than my father usually favours for his guards of the women’s quarters. I only know she is one by the sari she wears – dipped in black dye and draped between her legs so she can fight for our honour if she needs to. As I’m looking at her, it’s the oddest thing – I feel almost like we should be running towards each other, there’s a feeling like we have met before. I shake my head to clear it, I might still be half-asleep.

‘Highness,’ says the eunuch in a gravelly voice.

I nod at her and pause by the door, looking around to see if anyone else is awake.

‘Your royal parents are still asleep, of course,’ says the eunuch.

‘Of course,’ I murmur.

‘But I believe that His Highness, Prince Salva, is stirring in his bedchamber. The kitchen sent him water to wash.’

I glance sharply at the eunuch. How much does she know? Not that Salva and I are a secret and if we are, it’s a very open one, but everyone in the palace usually pretends we are nothing to each other. It’s more modest and becoming that way, and even though my mother is not what one would call a reigning queen, being the sort of woman who prefers to lie in her darkened chambers and have my father come to her, rather than go out into the world, she is still a stickler for propriety.

Most of the time though, she doesn’t hear about what we get up to. What I get up to. I cross her pet slave’s hand with coins so she doesn’t tell on me. My sisters are – mostly – to be trusted. I am careful.

Being careful means you don’t laugh out loud, nor look too happy. Being careful means you cast your eyes downwards so that no one sees the gleam in them, and then accuses you of being wild, unbecoming of a princess. Being careful means pretending to be deeply interested in the rules your mother teaches you – how to be good, how to be virtuous, how to be the kind of wife that no one notices because she is always in the background, but, at the same time, the kind of wife that everyone notices because she is so essential to the running of the kingdom.

My mother is not that kind of a wife, but my father would argue that she is vital to his kingdom, our kingdom, Kashi of the river and the temples, because she is vital to him and he makes our world go. Sometimes, on feast days, you might be able to see my mother next to my father, smiling tremulously at the crowd, a pale diminutive figure, almost swaying in the breeze. The people press forward then, raise their hands, palms forward, towards her, crying ‘Rani Ma! Rani Ma!’ as though she was their mother too, and she smiles, but only at the ground, because she will not lift her eyes in my father’s presence. And after only a moment or two of this, her maids will surround her and she will be led back to her chambers where they will spend all day anointing her forehead with sharp smelling oils to make her headache go away, and massaging her feet. But those fleeting appearances are enough, making her this rare prize, a slow but swift-blooming flower, something so precious that you would only be allowed to gaze at briefly, because it would be contaminated if you looked too long. And as a consolation, a sop to the people, we are brought out after our mother, the three princesses of Kashi, healthy as young heifers, none of us would even dream of fainting, we are our father’s daughters, we who smile and wave as the crowd roars its approval.

‘Does her Highness require accompaniment?’ the eunuch asks.

I consider it and then say, ‘We thank you. That would be wise. But who would be left to guard our sisters’ chamber?’

‘You need not worry, Highness,’ says the eunuch. ‘See, the sun has emerged from his bed of clouds, and the guards will change now. The new guards will arrive shortly. In fact—’ here, she tilts her head to one side like a squirrel, ‘here they come.’

The maids have anklets that jingle, the eunuchs have strips of beaten brass across their chests and around their waists and those clink. I, the eldest princess of Kashi, am usually laden with bangles and bracelets, thick necklaces around my neck, fetters really, to keep me from running too fast or laughing too loudly, but we are allowed moments of freedom when we sleep, so I am unadorned for now. Until my sisters wake up and we are all dressed and bathed, ready for the new day.

Swiftly, I walk into the darkness of the halls, the stone floor still cool from the night before, the lamps burnt down to just bouncing flames which cast shadows across the landing, the last dances of the night before cock’s crow. I don’t need to see to make my way to Salva’s room, he has had it for as long as he has been here and I have always been two turns away. I know he will be awake, because he is a light sleeper and an early riser – a good habit in a king. Unlike my father, his guardian, Salva doesn’t drink the wine that flows so easily after our nightly meal, he doesn’t beckon to the most toothsome of the serving maids to come to his bed at night. He doesn’t need to, he has me.

Of course, this is womanish thinking. All men need more than one woman, unless you were King Rama himself. And was his marriage perfect? It was not. In a pique of jealousy, he abandons his wife, Queen Sita, the epitome of a good wife around here. We have been told the story often, always interlaced with morals: this is why we must not talk to any men apart from our husbands, King Rama was a saint, and even a saint was provoked. This is why we must be good girls and follow our husbands everywhere, yes, even into the forest where we wouldn’t have our cushioned beds or our favourite necklaces (at this point in the story, my youngest sister always gasps. She would rather throw herself into a fire than live without her baubles.). I’m not saying Salva is King Rama, but he is virtuous and noble, and knows that every real king only has one queen, even if you marry several times, there will be a queen of your heart and your body, and the rest, well, they’re there for convenience.

Salva’s guard, a tall, stout man with a bald head, draws to one side when he sees me. All his personal staff are used to these visits, in return, they will be rewarded with high positions in our court. The court of Salva and I, when we marry. It is so delicious to hug that thought to myself, that I smile as I enter and Salva, who is already drinking his morning brew of fermented leaves in water, smiles back.

‘You look in good humour,’ he says. ‘Did you dream of pleasant things?’

The eunuch has stopped outside as well, so we are alone. I go straight to him and sit on the bed.

‘I don’t remember, but I must have.’ As I say it, a brief image of last night’s dream flashes in my head: blood and bare feet and the smell of burning bodies.

I shake my head, and focus instead on my young love, sitting there, his hand reaching out to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. Every time I am near him, I’m struck by how lucky we are, to be in love, to be so perfectly suited, even though our marriage is one that has been fixed by our fathers. Salva is handsome, I can say this even though I am enamoured by him, anyone with eyes can see it. His body is like a peepal leaf, broad shoulders narrowing down to a slim waist. His eyes are clear, not reddened like many warriors, and his hair is straight and thick, falling to his shoulders, unless he ties it back with a cord, like he has today. His lips are reddish and plump, a girl’s mouth, I used to tease him when we were children, but now just the right sort of mouth to do what it is doing now, which is kissing my neck, and my bare shoulder. I am all sensation, all want and what I want is for him to go on as he is, one hand reaching out to cup my breast, the other in the tangle of my hair.

We stop almost as soon as we start, breathing heavily. We no longer have to be that careful, but it still wouldn’t look good for a princess to be married with a heavy stomach, no matter how common it still is in the villages. We must set an example, if my mother has said that once, she’s said it a thousand times, but oh, it’s so difficult to stop ourselves when we are so close to getting what we want.

The distant sound of prayer bells. My mother’s household is awake and that means I have to go. I stand up and settle my cloth around myself. Salva smooths out the homespun on his lap and smiles at me.

‘Did you want something?’ he asks, and then smirks. ‘I mean, besides this.’

‘No, I just wanted to remind you that I’m going riding today, so we don’t have much time to discuss the ceremony.’

‘Is there much to discuss? You choose me, your sisters choose their husbands, we all marry and feast, and then I bed you.’ He raises his eyebrows and I laugh.

‘I believe that’s all you’re looking forward to,’ I tease. ‘Just the bedding.’

‘That’s not true. I look forward to the bedding, and then the bedding after that. And after that. And so on.’

‘Well, I look forward to us starting our life together. To being the queen apparent.’

The eunuch pokes her head into the door and calls, ‘Highness.’ Her eyes are averted away from us, in case we are in a delicate position. I like her manners, I think.

‘Yes, I’m coming,’ I say, and touch Salva’s shoulder lingeringly. We will not be able to be alone again all day. He grabs my hand and kisses my fingers and then I leave, the eunuch behind me.

Chapter Two

Once upon a time, in a rich and fertile kingdom, there lived three princesses who were as beautiful as the day.

When I was far younger, I used to love the stories about the three princesses. Sometimes they would be birds, and the handsome princes had to break the curse and turn them back into humans again. Sometimes, they would have to work together to defeat the evil witch. Sometimes, all three would be abducted by an evil asura, and noble princes would have to charge to their rescue. It was only when I was much older that I learned that these stories were usually about one princess, if there were three, the older two were mean and rude, and the youngest had to work alone and win all the rewards. Our ayah used to change the story to suit us, and as time went on, the other maids learnt from her, and so all our stories were about three princesses, and those are my earliest memories: the three of us on a bed, fresh from our baths, listening with open mouths to the stories.

Truth be told, we are nothing like those princesses. I am not kind, like the eldest princess always was. Ambika, the sister next in line to me, is not fair and just. And Ambalika, our baby, is more spoiled than either of us, certainly not clever with her words or her needle. But she is more beautiful than either of us, so when the line ‘as beautiful as the day’ would appear, she’d smile down at her hands, like she was so modest, but we all knew she was thinking about herself. My own eyes are too close-set, giving my face a crafty and sly look, even though scheming is beyond me. And Ambika’s eyes wander too far apart, giving her the open, innocent expression of a babe-in-arms, and she is far from that. In Ambalika however, it was as though fate finally decided what would look right on a child of our parents, after making two mistakes. Her hair is long and lush and ripples down past her shoulders, all the way to her slender waist, her eyes – at the perfect distance from her nose – are large like lotus petals, her mouth is always set as though she is holding a treasure within it, and about to start laughing and spit it out. Even her body, as young as it is, looks like a miniature version of a woman’s body already, dipping in and out. Next to her, I feel as large and clumsy as one of my father’s camels, knock-kneed and unable to walk in a straight line.

Our sister’s beauty is part of the reason Ambika and I are not married already. We both became women two rains ago, a little late for me, a little early for her. We should have already been married and sent off to our husbands’ homes as soon as we began to ripen. Fruit spoils if you store it too long, our maids whisper, and even though we are not supposed to pay attention to them, I can’t help thinking it’s true. But our father, faced with three daughters and no son, decided that all of us would go at one time to avoid losing his kingdom in dowries, the pageantry of the swayamvara will distract our future husbands from looking too closely at what riches they haven’t received. And we would wait till Ambalika was on the cusp of womanhood, when her nurses, who have been with us since we were born and know our bodies better than we do, would report back to him. Because Ambalika is his duck that lays the golden eggs, stories of her beauty were carefully composed and sent to neighbouring kingdoms from when she was barely out of her cradle, and marriage proposals came in for her by the time she was walking. It is because of her that kings sent their heirs forward to meet us: we’ll marry the older two sisters if we can have the youngest one.

At the moment, the youngest one is having rice gruel spooned into her mouth as though she was an infant, and Ambika is ready with her eyes narrowed into slits, to have a word with me.

‘Where have you been?’

‘How is it your concern?’ I reply, and yank on her plait as I walk by for good measure. It is not something a queen apparent would do, but I doubt if any other queens have had to deal with such aggravating young sisters. Ambika opens her mouth to complain but a crafty look comes over her face and I know she’s about to say something that will spoil everything, so I quickly apologize and sit next to her so that the maid can begin to oil and comb my hair as well.

‘Mother wants us to meet in her rooms after we’re dressed,’ says Ambika, as the gruel is whisked away and another maid wipes her mouth carefully.

‘I’m going riding with Ashvat,’ I say,